


Thương

by blind_bombshell



Series: Mosaic [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beverly Katz is the Best, Dom Beverly Katz, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Rare Pairings, Someone Help Will Graham, Someone Helps Will Graham, Sub Will Graham, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, nonsexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blind_bombshell/pseuds/blind_bombshell
Summary: Beverly Katz is Will Graham's dominant. They're not in-love, they don't want to be, but that doesn't mean their relationship is any less important or special because of it.Nonsexual, domestic BDSM starring an intimate friendship.





	1. Veriloquence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theheartbelieves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/gifts), [strangestorys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestorys/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly Katz is Will Graham's dominant - she takes care of him when everything feels just a little too much. 
> 
>  
> 
> Non-sexual BDSM, soft-domming, F/M friendship.

They don’t get to do this as often as they'd like. Their schedules don’t really allow for it, despite working together quite often. She has intensive lab work to do, after all, and he is still teaching in addition to lending his brain to whatever psycho Jack deems most important that week. They get a couple of weekends a month, at the most, though sometimes they do have the odd weekday, whenever they can swing it. However, the sporadic nature of their meetings make the time that they _can_ spend together all the more poignant and satisfying.

Or, at least, that's what he tells himself.

Will is exhausted when he arrives at her door that evening. It’d been another heavy case. He was certain he smelled like death and sweat, and he just couldn’t muster up the wherewithal to drive himself all the way back to Wolf Trap after landing back in Baltimore. Money’s tight, as always, and the goldenrod of his bills is a nagging, unrelenting anxiety that won’t stop thrumming in his head. He knows he should be back home, organizing his next lesson plan, but he simply cannot muster the energy to get back into his _car_ , let alone be productive once he's at home. His skin is too tight and though he’s never enjoyed admitting to any kind of weakness, today’s been too much on top of everything else wrong with his life.

He’s spent the last week in a crappy hotel room, sitting alone and feeling miserable - he felt like he was even _breathing_ wrong. He hasn't slept in days, feels like microwaved death, and is mostly surviving on caffeine and power bars, at this point. He needs this, more than he cares to admit to anyone, even himself, and he _knows_ this is pathetic.  
  
He certainly _feels_ pathetic, standing outside of her single-level home, in the rain, at fuck-all in the evening. It's pitch-black out here except for the street lights and moon illuminating the grass as he stands on her front lawn, feeling increasingly like some sort of creep rather than someone spontaneously visiting a friend. He’s soaked to the bone, glasses foggy and rain-splattered, his toes are freezing, his fingers are numb.

He can’t bear it.

He has a fleeting thought for Hannibal, who had told him if he ever needed to spend a night in the city, Will would be more than welcome to stay over in one of his guest rooms -- but Will _also_ knows Hannibal would lead him down a long, winding road of doctiloquent knowledge and bizarre mythical references that would leave him dizzy, bizarrely aroused, and all the more snappish for it. That's not something he needs, not right now. Those conversations were too complicated, too grating on his psyche and his nerves and too much for tonight, especially if he found out about his arrangement with Beverly.

And if _Zee and Price_ ever found out? He'd never hear the end of it.

He twists the handles of his tote as he cringes mentally and shudders, both from the cold and the shame he feels. He knows none of them would respect him anymore, as little as they already do, anyway. He spares a thought for his canine pack, their comfort and loyalty. They're currently with a neighbor, a kindly retired woman of a certain age that also boards horses and treats his pack with as much, if not more, devotion as he does. He hadn't expected the case to wrap up as quickly has it had so she's set to keep his dogs for a few more days yet, and he  _knows_ it's illogical to feel any guilt about that. Not when he knows they're safe and taken care of, not when he knows she's perfectly capable and has staff available for the days she isn't. 

He sighs, shrugs off the remainder of his guilt, and finally rings her doorbell - wet from rain and smooth beneath his fingertip. His hands tremble from exhaustion, cold, and anticipation. It really has been too long.

The repeating chime echoes inside and there’s a long moment of hush, enough to make him start to think about heading back to the car before the door swings open – heat, cinnamon, and conifer billow out and he just wants to fall down to his knees and weep from the ache that yawns inside him just from that olfactory promise of  _comfort_.

She’s in a silky bath robe, fluffy bunny slippers, hair up in a complicated knot on the top of her head, and she’s breathtaking. Genuinely happy, she pulls him into her arms right there on the front step, their height difference inconsequential with the step to the inside between them. She breathes his name like just saying it brings her joy and she squeezes her arms around his shoulders, hard. The stiffness in his response, or rather lack thereof, is obvious enough. She makes a small concerned noise as though about to comment on it, and then he crumples into her embrace, feeling as though all his strings have been cut, and she takes his weight gracefully. Her soft, sweet-smelling hands that rub his back through his damp clothes, as if infusing him with her warmth as he buries his face desperately against her neck and clavicle.

Sometimes he thinks she knows him better than anyone ever has, and even so, she is the only person who ever greets him like he’s been missed.

Will clings to the edges of her robe, settling on the sash and worrying it with his fingers as his eyes shut and the contact begins to overwhelm him. He might be crying, he can’t tell. “You okay, Graham?” she asks quietly and he makes a noncommittal noise into the side of her neck. Her fingers splay against his neck before she pulls him off and steps back. “Has it really gotten that bad?” He doesn’t respond, standing morosely, removing his hands from her guiltily and shoving them into his pockets as he looks away, chin jutting out as he bites his tongue. He shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. “Come in, then, take your shoes off by the door. Glasses on the first shelf.”

He nods slowly, picking up his tote and clutching it protectively to his chest as he does so, ridiculously relieved to have his doubts eased.

 

It’s not a large home, but it _is_  very tastefully decorated. He’s had Wolf Trap for eight years but it’s not as much of a home as this place is. The door closes behind him as he's taking off his shoes and her footsteps are light as they recede into the back of the home. Every brush of his socks against the hardwood floor makes him feel lighter, the tightness in his eyes and shoulders beginning to lessen as he enters the living room. The lights are dim in their recessed houses, giving the cream and forest green room a dream-like quality. He straightens his spine, rolling his shoulders back as he carefully begins to strip off his clothing, placing the items into the discreet hamper carefully housed in the armoire on the far wall.

It’s familiar and calming, every item removed feeling like a layer of guilt and obligation from his mind, loosening the Gordian knot within his belly. It’s repetitive, natural, smoothing the rough edges of himself along with his everyday life in such a simple act, losing himself to the repetitive motions until he’s standing there pink, cream, and naked, awkward in his own body and lost in the domestic setting that surrounds him.

The house, itself, falls silent as the central heating he hadn’t consciously registered clicks off. He also places his tote bag in the armoire and closes it with a soft, magnetic _snick._ He doesn’t bring much into her home, never does, he doesn’t need to and he knows by the time Thursday rolls around, in three days, his clothing will be laundered, smelling like essential oil.

He wiggles a little, his ass swaying as he moves, limbering himself up before kneeling on the cushion she keeps for situations such as these next to her chair. It’s dark green and tufted, cushioning his knees wonderfully and allowing him to sink into his role as comfortably as he sits. He leans so his forehead rests on the arm of her chair and clasps his hands in his lap as he waits. He feels himself slip into a light doze as he listens to the faint rustling of her in the kitchen, doors opening and shutting, flatwear clinking. He relaxes into it like a warm bath, domesticity lulling him in and curling around him like a worn, flannel blanket.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t move when he hears her turn on the dishwasher. He doesn’t stir when he hears her enter the room, her house shoes barely creating a susurrus of white noise as she walks over and sets some things onto the coffee table, a clink of porcelain on stone on wood. She stands in front of him and toes his cushion, prompting him to open his eyes. He smiles, a soft drunk thing that's slow to arrive but eager to stay. She's holding his collar in her hands, the sight of it filling his chest with a soft, fragile feeling he doesn't ever want to go away.

His collar is suede in a medium brown, thick in both width and quality. There's a matte brass buckle and belongs to _him_   - only his and only when he's with her. He doesn’t know how much it cost and, frankly, doesn’t care. It’s his and his alone. He knows the feel of it around his neck as well as he knows the thrum of the pulse that allows him to drop into psychopaths’ psyches. It’s probably strange for other people to think that something like that could feel as exhilarating and freeing as riding a motorcycle but he can’t think of anything else analogous in his life that comes close to the feel of the weight of that collar on his neck.

He mentally shakes the thought off and focuses instead on the collar. He sits up obediently, eagerly. The item may look trivial to other people – even ones in The Scene, but it’s loaded with symbolism and meaning for both of them. It’s grounding, comfortable, restricting when she wants it to be and all-over bright point in his life. He feels himself swaying forward, face to the floor in anticipation of her mark. “Oh, I have missed you,” she says quietly. She drapes the collar open against the back of his neck and he leans backwards and away so she can clasp it. He takes a deep breath and sighs, leaning forward again and opening his eyes, finally at peace.

Their faces are a scant few inches apart. He swallows, Adam’s apple clicking, his mouth opening as if to speak but there are no words left within him, no words adequate to express how this feels just the gaping maw of hunger in his belly that needs to be near her and the soft exhalation of breath that escapes as she tests the tightness of his collar and her fingers pinch his skin. Not hard, just enough to let him know she’s there. He swears he can _feel_ the endorphins flooding his brain and lighting it up like a strand of holiday lights. This feeling is pure, unadulterated ease – he feels both wanted and cared for, that everything will be okay.

“Remember your rules?” Her voice is intimate, quiet in their shared space.

“Yes, Miss,” he responds, almost a whisper.

“Good. Today, I don’t want you to speak at all unless you have to, understand?”

He gulps for air and nods enthusiastically, curls bouncing around his forehead. She smiles affectionately, leaving a small kiss to his cheekbone, her thumb dragging against his chin and scraping against the grain of his facial hair. His chest aches, swelling with some unnamed emotion and he almost feels like crying with relief. She moves backwards to sit in her chair, gesturing for him to place his head in her lap, and he eagerly complies. “Such a good boy,” she praises, hands sinking into his rain-damp, tangled tresses. Warmth suffuses his limbs and he sighs deeply, pushing himself further into her lap and ministrations. It feels amazing. The dull ache in his limbs and the pinched feeling in his face unfurl with every gentle tug and slight scratch of fingernails against his scalp. He feels like a sponge, soaking up her affections and they’re filling the empty pit of his stomach with a syrupy sort of kindness he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of.

An untold amount of time later, she pulls up on the short hairs at the top of his neck and he leans back dutifully, proud that he doesn’t whine for more petting. She gestures to the coffee table behind him, “The water, soup, and sandwich are for you. Finish it all.”

He blinks at her slowly before obeying. The water is cool but not cold, the soup a homemade minestrone that’s just the perfect temperature to be consumed, the sandwich is on high-quality delicious wheat bread with a crisp, dark crust that’s filled with a sweet ham, thick-cut Swiss cheese, Dijon mustard, and fresh, crisp lettuce leaves. He consumes everything set before him with a ravenous hunger he didn’t quite realize he had, his fatigue and hunger making the simple fare feel as sumptuous as one of Hannibal's meals. Once he’s finished, he looks almost bashfully at her, grateful, through his lashes, embarrassed to have finished everything so quickly but not regretful at all with the fullness settling in his belly. She touches aforementioned belly gently and kisses the crown of his head. He breathes her approval in deeply, feeling it fill his lungs, expanding him in a completely different way than the delicious food had.

“Sit by the couch.”

Will lurches forward onto his hands, crawling away from her with long strides. She likes to watch him do this and he has learned to do this task well, his palms and knees cooling against the hardwood as he displays his body for her. Beverly takes a sharp, deep inhalation of her own before he’s finally settled at the corner of the soft, buttery cream colored sofa.

After a few moments observing him on his haunches, hands on his thighs and head slightly bowed in deference, she stands and makes her own way over, dropping her robe on the arm behind him. The slippery material tickles his back and ass as he waits. She steps out of her bunny slippers, kicking them under the coffee table while grabbing her tablet off the top. He sneaks a glance up at her back before she sits on the far side of the couch, getting an eyeful of a pretty lilac babydoll top and ruffle panties before averting his eyes again so she doesn't catch him looking. She pats the cushion next to her after  “Up here, please.”

He blinks, momentarily surprised. She’s never had him sit on the couch before when they were playing, but – he's not going to refuse such a simple command. He climbs up slowly, on all fours, unsure of what she wants. She guides his head into her lap, turning it sideways to face her stomach, his cheek resting against her thigh and nose brushing against the soft fabric of her top, and he curls himself with his back to the rest of the room. His toes clench as her hand presses into the back of his neck and slides down his shoulders, then back up into his curls. His arms cross his chest, resting against the back cushions. She finger-combs his hair as she reads, easing out the knots, and he begins to relax again incrementally. His toes flex and release, his arms come together as if in prayer and his eyelids drift shut. Consciousness bleeds from him like color from a crime scene and when she begins to absently brush her fingers along his arms, he finally loses the fight with the Sandman, thoughts evaporating.

Sleep has come to claim him, at last.


	2. Anfractuous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes from his nap, is disciplined, then send soundly to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's mentions of erections in this section. So, stay far away from that nonsense if you're not into that. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, so standard apologies for that.

Some time later, he feels her hand against his temple, fingers dragging across his scalp and nails lightly scratching just behind his ear on the down-stroke before cupping her palm loosely around his throat. The threat of a squeeze is unspoken and there’s no outward sign of it but he _feels_ it, regardless. He eyelids flutter as he reflexively swallows, the base of his skull feeling like a light’s been turned on. It’s primitive, blatantly displaying her ownership and he submits without thought, accepting the grip at his neck as she begins to trace the angle of his jaw.

He tilts his head back languidly, exposing his collar and a long moment passes blissfully motionless, his entire body feeling not only awakened but also sensitized. He’s overly aware in that moment, of the grain of the fabric in the couch’s upholstery pushing against his skin to the sleep-warm collar at his neck. He doesn’t move, he feels like he doesn’t breathe until she releases him and drags her knuckles against his collarbone to his shoulder.

He can feel something within himself lurching forward, starting in his chest and pulling the rest of him with it. It’s intimate, like he’s been cocooned and yet exposed in the best way. He misses this when he’s not here, this casual intimacy and acceptance he doesn’t feel anywhere else. It quiets his mind in a way that he’s sure Hannibal would approve of, if he were aware he did this at all. Now that he thinks about it, Hannibal likely has research papers on-file expounding on the benefits of BDSM to mental health.

The feel of her nails dragging long, curling trails along his shoulder blade is creating the most delicious, shivery feelings throughout his entire body and no thought can last very long. He would do this forever, if she let him, his touch-starved body thrumming and his lips trembling as he releases even more tension through a sigh against her thigh.

She pauses in her petting, enraptured in whatever she’s reading on her tablet, and he can’t help but twist greedily like a self-indulgent puppy attempting to goad its owner back into motion. She glances down when he nuzzles against the part of her thigh by her knee, expression fond and slightly wry as she lingeringly slides her hand down to his chest, thumbing heavily against a nipple until he settles. He bites his lip and lets out a soft moan, hips making an abortive thrust forward before he stops himself. She rubs harder and flicks back and forth against chest, idly alternating squeezes and rubs and tugs on the soft nubs of his areola until they are warm, swollen, and rosy beneath her fingers. She glances a nail against the apex of his nipple and he shakes as he gasps, his eyes flying open to look into hers – somewhat askance and upside down. The pull and pinch are raw and the sensations are building upon each other becoming almost meditative until it’s the only thing he knows, tenderness couched in sweetly abusive flashes. She knows how sensitive he is here, has made him cry just from this on more than one occasion. Usually she starts slow, with glancing flicks of a feather and, over an hour, gradually builds up to pinches and, on one memorable occasion, clamps.

His body bucks when she slaps his chest, palm on his nipple, and digs her fingers into the pectoral muscle around it. She’d noticed he wasn’t in the moment, he knows better. He’s more than half-hard, has been somewhat aroused since the collar went on in the first place, but it’s far away and unimportant. At this point, his arousal is nothing more than a low hum in his belly, nothing compared to the feeling of being touched so attentively after so long without anything so much as a passing shoulder pat from Jack. He wants this, so much, would probably be her house pet if he could get over himself enough to ask. There are worse things than living with a good friend who knows you as well as they know each other.

She slaps again. He winces and pants, full on his back, now, offering his entire body up to her in apology, trusting the punishment fits the crime. He smiles even as his eyes close and she smacks his belly once before twisting her hands in his hair again and tugging the collar – the light tug speaks louder than words ever could and he bows his back, his head sliding deeper into her lap as he displays his body for her perusal. As he settles, his bladder makes itself known and he squirms, torn between the need to relieve himself and staying exactly where he is.

“Miss?” he asks, voice rough from sleep and disuse, her fingers pausing to linger at his chin and he forges ahead reluctantly. “May I use your bathroom, please?”

She lets out a faint laugh and strokes his cheek before patting his shoulder. “Of course you may. Such a good boy.” A nod dismisses him and he grudgingly slides off the sofa with a soft thud. “Take a shower, too, door open.”

He nods, crawling to the bathroom. It’s one of her basic rules, the door, but it always makes him overly aware of himself to hear. There’s no lock he is allowed to use when he’s here, no door may close, nothing will be hidden if she wants it to be seen, because he’s hers when he’s here, even that.

Once he’s at the threshold of the bath, one of the few rooms he’s allowed to stand without asking first. It’s unusual and unfamiliar, leaving the door open while he pees. He doesn’t even do this at home, where only the dogs would be affronted. Despite the fact she’s seen him naked so many times it really shouldn’t matter, even just today, there’s something deeply exposing about urinating with no barrier between oneself and the world. He trusts her not to use it to humiliate him, but it’s strangely vulnerable regardless. He’s on display, even though there’s no one around to observe.

Despite these reservations, there’s something enticing about it, too, something forbidden and dirty. He washes his hands and takes out the soap and shampoo she’d bought for him, the towel that was his in her linen closet. Little pieces of himself she owns. He smiles softly and feels his collar with his free hand, petting it and allowing himself to become lost in it for a moment. Everything here is hers, even him, however temporarily.

For a man like Will, who has spent most of his life not being wanted by anyone, it feels ridiculously like a miracle for them to have found each other. What are the odds for them to be wired in mirrored ways. Complementary colors. They didn’t blend well, after all, but that didn’t mean they weren’t of a kind. When she inevitably found someone (and he was sure she would) he wouldn’t feel any sort of remorse or guilt for carrying this on afterwards. This relationship was separate from their dating selves, this wasn’t romance, and he knows she wouldn’t be with anyone who would be threatened by their arrangement.

Will lingers for a moment after he finishes his shower, dripping and naked in the tub. Even the glass around the shower is transparent and it makes heat swell low in his stomach, cock growing as he glances over to the mirror and at himself. The collar is the first thing he sees, slick and wet, a dark stripe at his pale throat and it makes his eyes look guileless. He looks… claimed, he thinks. Peaceful. And if there’s one thing he is _not_ outside these walls, it’s that. He runs his fingers against the wet line at his neck and feels wanted because of it. A deep, secure calm rolling over him as he stares at it. She keeps this only for him, no one else can wear it but him, and in this moment? He’s the only one she wants to do this for.

He brushes himself down briskly with the towel before stepping out, being sure his feet are somewhat dry before he does so. It wouldn’t do to make a mess, now, after all. He places his towel carefully on the rack before kneeling and crawling back out into the hall. She’s standing by the guest room door, holding her Tool Box.

“You clean-up nice, Graham, maybe I should have you over more often.” He simply grins in response, kneeling at her feet as she extends a hand to tug at his ear. “What made you come pay me a visit, tonight, no phone call or text or warning?”

He paused. She smacked him with the hand that had been pinching his ear, “Try again.”

“I fucked up! I-I-I got a man killed because I hesitated because I was tired and I couldn’t _see_ –” he takes a deep breath like a swimmer surfacing, feeling something ease in his chest he didn’t know was tight before.

“At least you're honest,” she says, “But it sounds like you knew it was the wrong decision to make. Have you forgotten everything you were asked to remember?”

Will bites his lip, shame-faced, unable to answer. The longer he goes between visits the harder it is to remember all the things she makes him feel while he's here. Her voice had been almost gone from his consciousness, Jimmy’s teasing and Jack’s disapproval had struck his last nerve and…. He'd had to prove... something... Zeller had been wrong about...

He can't even remember what it _was_ , now, and the lack of justification somehow just makes it all worse.

“Tell me what we talked about last time you were here,” she says. There's an edge of pity in her tone, as if he's too stubbornly slow to earn her praise, and Will casts his eyes down again, bowing his head in apology.

“My responsibilities,” he mumbles.

“And what are those?” she says. Will's eyes search a little desperately across the carpet by her feet, hunting for an answer he knows he won't find.

“I don't-” he hesitates, face creasing unhappily, pout just starting to form. “I don't remember,” he admits quietly.

She sighs, the chagrin evident enough that it sinks through Will's lungs, making his chest tight and his fingers twist together awkwardly in his lap.

“You are _not_ Jack and you don’t owe him anything,” she explains slowly as if to a small child, “You have nothing to prove to anyone. Not Jack. Not Zeller. Not Price. Not even Hannibal. We have discussed this so many times, I'm starting to wonder if you're even really trying.”

Will jerks his head up, eyes wide and pleading and she shakes her head, silencing him before he can speak.

“I don't know how else to help you remember that some things are  _not_  your job and to trust the team to do theirs.” The expression on her face shifts into something peevish and analytical as she considers the sight of him humbled dejectedly at her feet.

“Stand in the middle of the room,” she says at last.

Will blinks at her a little stupidly, somewhat thrown by the non-sequitur.

“What?”

“Don't make me repeat myself,” she barks. “Go in there and stand in the middle of the room. On the balls of your feet. Now.”

Will's heart flutters in his chest, something hot and anxious setting up low in his abdomen, but he trusts her. He crawls slowly into the still dark room and rises to his feet, then up onto his toes.

“I have tried,” she says. “I truly have, but I can't think of any way to make it stick other than making you come up with the answer for yourself. So you will stand there until you figure it out.”

Will's shoulders sag a little in defeat, mournful expression on his face as she crosses her legs and leans back in the chair to watch him, turning on the bedside lamp as she does so. There’s nothing but awkward, for him, silence as he stands there, unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to be feeling.

“Arms in the air, Graham, spread your fingers apart and reach for the ceiling.” He frowns and complies, feeling ridiculous as he stretches his body upwards, naked in the near-dark room. Will's tongue peeks out to moisten his lower lip even as he cringes. He doesn't like disappointing her, he absolutely hates it, and doing so was never his intention because it's cold and lonely and miserable being denied her affection. If she wants him to stand here, then he will do everything he can to obey. It's going to be agony soon but he  _is_  a good boy. He can prove it. He can do anything she demands of him, as long as he knows it will please her.

When she speaks again her voice is low and serious and Will can't make himself meet her gaze. “Your duty,” she says, “is to find the culprit, that’s all. Other than that, your first priority is yourself. Sleep. Eat. Teach. Your dogs aren’t the only things that are important, Graham.”

She pins him with her stare, eyes hard and serious. “If that means asking someone else to take the lead, it is your duty to do so, do you understand? Asking someone else to take the reins doesn’t make you weak, it makes you in-control. Delegation. Jack does it. Zeller and Price and I do it. There’s no failure in asking for help. There’s no guilt in cutting things up into manageable pieces. You are not an island, Will. Don’t try to make yourself one.”

Will's lip wobbles at her chastisement, shame churning in his belly and, as if reading his thoughts, regret flashes briefly in her expression. She looks away before it settles, though, and stares down at his feet.

“Higher,” she demands quietly and Will's legs wobble unsteadily as he complies.

It isn't easy. He's been aroused for a while but there was respite in varying the pace to find a balance. He's been hovering somewhere between enjoying it and ignoring it, but he can taste the sweat that's starting to prickle on his upper lip in response. His legs are starting to feel the strain, his arms are growing tired from blood loss. The exhaustion of the day, despite his nap, is starting to creep into his body.

“Please,” he says, weakly. His whole body feels tight and swollen.

“Just a little more,” she says. Just the barest hints of a smile flickers over her lips as he pants a little anxiously, his hands fist and release in the air as he teeters. She stands up, running her hands over his shoulder and down to his waist, then kisses just below his shoulder blade. “You’re doing so well. Have you figured it out yet?”

He grunts, a high-pitched thing that escapes before he can swallow it, it sounds broken and echoes in the erstwhile empty house. He bends his head forward, trying to ground himself. He swallows, his neck catching on the collar and making him all the more aware of the second convulsive swallow. He’s trembling, he knows he is, sweat prickling all over his body suddenly and he feels awash with cold. He’s desperate, it’s too easy to collapse, too tempting to just put his heels down. He can’t stop, though, but he can’t do this, he can’t ---

“Please, Miss, help me.”

He can hear her smile. “I’m sorry, can you say that again?”

He clears his throat. “Miss. I can’t do it like this any longer. Please, help me.”

“Down,” she says, loud. Firm. He gasps at the relief of it almost collapsing his arches onto the floor, blood rushing to his arms and cheeks. “Oh, my clever boy, you worked it out, just like I knew you would.” He feels like crying, he might already be. His calves are spasming and his arms feel disconnected from his body. “Lie down, sweetheart, lie down.” His legs feel leaden as he struggles to comply, landing face-down on the duvet. “That’s it,” she whispers, “All done now, I promise. So good, look at you.”

Her praise is almost overwhelming and he struggles to help when she eases him onto his back and massages liniment to his legs, to his arms. He whimpers as feeling starts to return. “You’ve had enough tonight, I think, time for sleep."

Will somehow manages to raise his head and he must look dewy-eyed and shattered because her expression softens at the sight of him. She takes off the gloves that are stained with liniment and cups his face, lovingly caressing his cheeks and kisses the bridge of his nose. “Don’t look at me like that. I like knowing you can learn your lessons even when they’re difficult.”

Her fingers rise to the back of his neck and pull at his collar, the firm tug pulling him forward and into a sitting position. “Bed time,” she says again, “I’ll check on you soon. For now, I want you under these covers, come on.” He’s sore but the room is clean and fresh and he crawls under the blankets with nary a thought. The sheets are soft, the mattress so much more accommodating than his own, and as he slides in his erection drags against the linen and he bites down on the moan that tries to escape him. She kisses his forehead, tucking curls away from his face and turns off the light.

He doesn’t stir a few minutes later when she peeks through the open door, a profound sense of affection swelling in her chest, making her itch to hold him close. She wishes, not for the first time, she didn’t have to give him up for so long in between. She hurts for him, and she’d protect him from the world, if she could, if he would let her, her sweet Atlas. How unfortunate the outside world is so much more demanding and so much more difficult than this.

 _Tomorrow, though,_ she thinks as she walks to her own room, turning lights off and checking the alarm system on her way. _Tomorrow is for some well-deserved indulgences._


	3. Chlorochrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, Beverly is dedicated to give Will a relaxing day of pampering and domestic duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning for mentions of erections, but there's still no sex and no masturbation because that's the person I am. I'm sorry you had to find out this way. 
> 
> Chlorochrous: a yellow-green color - which will make sense towards the end of the chapter
> 
> Also, there's going to be another chapter of this, finishing this day out and describing their last day together because I am WEAK and this went on far longer than I expected it to and I'm sorry if you find it boring. Thank you for your patience & attention, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Will awakens to the soft hum of the radio thumping along with the dishwasher and the faintest waft of coffee’s promise, his mind thick with the after-effects of a solid block of sleep uninterrupted by inside or outside forces. The bed fairly cradles his naked body, the soft blankets and sheets swaddling him, a protective cocoon from the outside world, freeing him from obligation and necessity. It feels like the most exquisite indulgence to be so relaxed, to still be abed when the sun is up.

No dogs, no classes, no Jack.

It’s so liberating knowing that if he was needed, if his presence had been required, she would have woke him up and it’s so… gosh, so unspeakably lovely and freeing that she hasn’t and, instead, he can just... lie here like a particularly greedy, indolent housecat.

He smothers his face into the pillow next to him, smelling sandalwood and lavender and something else he can’t place. It’s almost enough to lull him back into a doze but as he shuffles into position, his dick reminds him it exists and he chuckles because _that’s_ a first in a while. Whereas yesterday, his arousal had been situational but distant, this morning’s had been nascent until it was insistent. Now, he just wants to rut into her sheets like a particularly eager teenager who doesn't know better. He considers it for all of a few moments, allowing himself one indulgent thrust against the mattress and _softsosoftsogood_ sheets before sitting up and getting out of bed.

He inspects the sheets for bodily fluids and, finding none, makes the bed, his cock bouncing as he works like an ambitious terrier who just wants to be played with. The problem, here, is that it’s been quite a while since he’s had any sort of release. His body feels swollen with the want of it.

A few months ago, she told him not to masturbate without permission and he’d readily agreed - he hasn’t betrayed that trust. It’s been pretty easy for him to obey lately, with his body not feeling up to such things, but the reality is that he hasn’t taken care of himself that way in weeks. His mouth twists sardonically. Okay, he hasn't taken care of himself in _a lot_ of ways, lately. But now he's no longer starving, no longer exhausted and --

He looks down at himself, the ruddy slit of his cock releasing a bead of clear fluid in what he can only assume is hope. He spies a bruise on his left pec - a dark, reddish brown oblong that contrasts nicely, he thinks abstractly, with the puffy dusky pink look of his tortured areola. He presses against it gingerly, curious, and hisses at the sting of it, his cock releasing another desirous drop of fluid. He sighs. This isn’t helping.

He goes back on his knees to the floor, making his way to the bathroom to freshen up before meeting his Miss at the breakfast table. He washes his face, shaves, brushes his hair and teeth, flexes his thighs a few times to get his erection to wilt enough to be presentable, then crawls into the dining room. She looks resplendent in the midmorning light, hair back in a clip, a different dressing gown from last night preserving her modesty, lace of her teddy flirting with its edges and her clavicle, breakfast before her and a large cushion on the floor on the floor to her right. It’s navy blue. There's a silver, embroidered "W" facing him. That's new.

His heart aches with happiness, tears prickling the corners of his eyes before he crawls towards it, making every attempt being made to be both quiet and appeasing. She glances up from her morning read and smiles as he crosses the threshold, setting down her tablet. “Good morning, sleepyhead, come sit with me.”

Still naked, he makes his way over, his knees meeting the cushion in what can only be expressed as bliss. He can’t tell exactly what his new cushion is made of, chunks of memory foam maybe, but he knows _this_ is where he's meant to be. With that thought, he sinks a little into what he recognizes as subspace; sitting on his haunches, his hands palm-up on his thighs. She smiles warmly, proud, as she runs the back of her hand along his cheek, digging her thumbnail into his lower lip before moving across his chin to the other side. Jerking her head upwards. He obeys the unspoken command to sit up on his knees, hands behind his back, so she can look at him more closely. His stomach flutters, as it usually does when he obeys an unvoiced command correctly.

“This is unexpected,” she says, and he knows she’s talking about his smooth face. He doesn't make a habit of shaving it all off (it itches like hell while it grows back), but he knows she likes it, likes how vulnerable and young he looks without the scruff. His eyelashes dance and flit against each other as he feels his cheeks redden under her scrutiny, desperately trying to keep looking forward in her direction and not down, away from her gaze and honest praise. “Oh, just look at you. I do love you in the morning, especially with a treat like this. My sweet boy.” She pats the cheek she had been petting, not unkindly, and gestures to the food in front of her. He can see, now, it’s a full breakfast of eggs, bagel, coffee, orange juice, grapes, and strawberries. “Are you hungry?”

He nods quickly, a soft smile of his own upon his lips, unsure if he’s allowed to speak today or not. He feels _bashful,_ now, of all things. Her hand rests briefly at the top of his head, guiding him back down into a more comfortable sit before taking a bite of eggs for herself, then offering him a mouthful. He stares idly at the dark space beneath the table as she eats, his mind comfortingly blank and becoming quieter still each time a light tug on the hair at his crown pulls him back, opening his mouth. A morsel slides between his lips, and he chews slowly, mostly for the pleasure of savoring the taste rather than hunger.

Breakfast is quiet, blissfully and utterly domestic, and she interrupts his lethargic sub-space meditation repeatedly just for the pure thrill of being able to do so. She strokes his curls and cheeks unabashedly, fairly showering him with affection and making him feel like his chest is filled with warmth and light. There’s never been a more perfect morning than this, he thinks as she swipes the crumbs away from his mouth and he curls his arms around her thigh, rubbing his nose against her leg before straightening when she tugs lightly at the baby hairs on the back of his neck for another drink of coffee.

When he’s had his fill, she leans back with a satisfied hum and drinks her orange juice, allowing him sips of water when the mood strikes her. “Are you feeling better?” she asks between sips. He nods. The tension has dropped entirely from his body like a too-tight shell and the good night’s rest has done wonders for restoring his mood. She nods once in response, small smirk upon her lips as she leans forward, thoughtfully correcting his collar, pushing once, firmly, on his Adam’s apple, making him convulsively swallow and still.  “In that case, I want you to stand, take care of these dishes, then do the laundry, including your clothes from the hamper. After that, sit on your cushion in the living room. I’ll be with you shortly.”

He gives her a shy little grin and unfolds himself from the floor, somewhat mournful to see the meal coming to an end. She stands to greet him, giving him a quick hug and buss on the cheek before heading to her room, presumably to change into her day-clothes.

Slowly, with great care, he unloads the clean dishes from the dishwasher and washes the breakfast ones in the sink. Sage green walls covered in flora scientific drawings in shadow boxes and pressed flower samples stare back at him as he stands, mindfully distant in deference to his nudity, by the apron sink. It’s relaxing, centering, to fill the sink with sudsy water and clean them by hand. It feels like he’s being productive, helpful in a way that filling the dishwasher doesn’t provide. After the last of the pans have been dried, the plates, cups, and silverware painstakingly put away in a manner that, frankly, matters to him more than her, he sets about doing the laundry.

His (still damp and slightly repugnant) clothes are where he left them and, after careful sorting, he turns on the washing machine in her designated laundry room. The machines are new, probably newer than anything else in the house, and he knows by now how to do the laundry properly. Water first, then half of the soap for the load, then the clothes, finally the rest of the soap. He pauses before the last step, taking a moment to smell the homemade mix in the mason jar in his hand. He remembers, vividly, sifting together the borax and washing soda, grating the fels naptha by hand. The grating had lulled him into a mindless, compliant state and he’d done too much, too enraptured in the repetitive motion, and had tried to compensate by using more of the other ingredients. She’d noticed, of course. He shivers, alone and naked in the laundry room, at the memory of her hand (and for a couple smacks at the end, memorably, a wooden spoon) making sharp contact with his backside in recompense.

The smell of the fels naptha is fresh, clean, a stark contrast to the bright and bitter white vinegar he also adds to the laundry to activate the soap and provide some odor elimination before the dryer. He inserts a wooden spoon (not the same one, but he still flushes at the feel of it in his hand), and measures out the rest of the soap before dutifully putting the jar on the shelf with the rest of the various laundry accouterments. Much like the rest of her home, even the laundry room was vastly different than his own, the absence of dog memorabilia notwithstanding. It’s like the laundry room from a commercial or a house renovation show, too perfect to be real, with white walls and turquoise tile line above a dark wood wainscoting.

He bites his lip, overly aware he’s tarried too long as it is, and walks fairly briskly into the living room and to his cushion, which has been moved to the middle of the floor. He bites his thumb nervously, not sure if she moved it before breakfast or after, fairly thumping his knees against the floor as he hears her bedroom door open and he scurries into position.

He hears a faint jingle and inhales sharply, dizzyingly deep, a thrill lighting up his belly and his mind, simply from having an inkling of what she has in store for him. She strolls, there’s no other word for it, into the room, visibly pleased to see him where he belongs. “Hands behind your back, Graham,” she says, matter-of-factly, and Will obeys thoughtlessly, his eyes unfocusing, and he licks his suddenly-dry lips as he waits for her to bind his wrists.

The cuffs, themselves, are a dark brown that almost match his collar. They're a thick, fleece-lined leather connected together with a short length of cold silver links that make him shiver when they brush against the small of his back and tease just the apex of his ass. She secures him carefully, not too tight but not loose enough to wiggle out of (like he would even _try_ ), the leather and chain heavy enough to feel solid, grounding, a mark of ownership that removes him of obligation and the weight feels like a comforting caress rather than anything meant to be restricting.

It’s not about pain. Never has been, never will be. He doesn’t like degradation or threats of violence (let alone being hit, spanking being the one exception to this hard-and-fast rule), he gets enough of that working with Jack. Not that there's corporeal punishment in the FBI, but there's always a chance he'll be hit in one of his recreations of crimes and that's more than enough for him.  It feels worse than being tied down, though he can't think of a great analogy to the terror he sometimes feels of being someone else's puppet - an unwilling reenactor of their crimes.

There’s freedom in this, though, in the restriction and being safely powerless.

He’s learned to love the feel of the cuffs and of shibari. The ropes were fairly new, neither of them had experience with such a thing before. They'd taken a class, together, a few months ago. It’d been the first time he’d been on display as someone’s Sub, shown off and used as an example for the instructor under Bev’s watchful eye. That had been an educational experience for both of them. He loves the feel of the navy blue rope she keeps for him in the armoire, the encompassing pressure and endorphin rush of being unable to move pleasing some basic, primitive part of his mind that relishes in being quietly immobile. He longs for the intensity of it, allowing his mind to go completely static, feeling completely owned, his body molded and bound, willingly at the pure whims of another. Sometimes, she ties him in such a way that he is reduced to alternating positions of his arms or legs, riding that high of releasing discomfort and placing it elsewhere as she stands apart - sometimes, appearing indifferent to his plight, though he _knows_ she enjoys it as much as he does, on some level.

It’s as though she takes sad clay and molds it into something better, shaping him and his limbs into a pose that makes him both acquiescent and desirable.

He loves this feeling of being wanted, that his company is both desired and missed when it’s not there. It’s an immeasurable relief to know that in moments like these he literally can’t do anything wrong – he’s at her mercy and, at the same time, he holds all the cards. He’d purr if he could, even if that doesn't make sense outside of his own head, he _feels_ it.

She lets his arms down and the cold metal kisses the crack of his ass, making him want to squirm but he doesn’t. He would worship her, if she wanted it, debase himself if it was asked. In these moments, he would do nearly anything to feel the warmth of her approval wrapped around him. He nuzzles against her belly, her soft chiffon top tickling his face as he attempts to wordlessly convey his adoration. She squeezes his shoulder. She knows. He sighs, content for the moment.

He glances up at her face and before he knows it, he’s on the couch again, warm in his passive obedience as she picks up her tablet and begins reading the book she was enjoying the night before. She hums, sometimes, along with the radio that was turned on at some point, or maybe it was never turned off from earlier, but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters but this. He has no place to be. He feels… cosseted. Contained. Mind blissfully swimming and there are no monsters here, no stags, no demands, no papers to be graded and no bills to be paid, no dogs to be fed (not that he doesn’t enjoy caring for his pack, but it’s nice to take a break), no dead bodies. No bafflingly semi-flirtatious exchanges with his psychiatrist. No yelling. Just… this. Warmth. Calm. He feels almost dreamy, imagining himself more as a favored pet than a man.

When the buzzer for the washing machine finally goes off, he languidly stretches his back and legs before asking permission to finish his duties. She raises an eyebrow and grants it before going back to her book. He’s actually standing in the laundry room, itself, before he remembers he’s tied. He lick-bites his top, then lower lip in thought, unwittingly making them pinken and shine. He could, conceivably, ask her to remove the cuffs. Which, honestly, he doesn’t want her to do at all, he’s enjoying the feel of them too much. Or, possibly, just ask for help, but, despite his lesson the night before… well. He got himself into this mess, after all.

At least they’re front-loading, he thinks. He half-kneels, his back towards the dryer as he gropes blindly for the handle. Finding it, he makes a grunt of triumph before tugging it open. _Success!_ He attempts the same on the other side. He grins at the sound of the latch releasing.  Standing in the laundry basket he’d left on the floor, he tugs clothes from the washer, nearly leaning on the machine as he reaches behind himself for more. When he finally can’t reach any more, he turns around and, spotting a few choice pieces against the wall of the machine, flails around on one leg, using his toes to pick them up and out.

All-in-all, it takes him about ten minutes to do a three-minute task, but he did it himself. He stands, absurdly proud of himself, stark naked alone in the laundry room, calf-deep in a basket of damp clothes, before he realizes he needs to put them into the dryer. The smile and feeling vaporize, the feeling of victory ringing hollow within his chest. A soft chuckle from the doorway makes him tense and he looks over to see Beverly, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I’m sorry, don’t mind me, Graham, I’m just… enjoying the show.”

He blows the curls out of his face peevishly, her smile widening as he does so. Somehow, this lessens the sting of his initial embarrassment, becoming a shared joke rather than a sly dig at his ineptitude.

“Miss. Would you mind… putting the laundry in the dryer for me, please?”

She takes a moment to pretend to mull it over, prolonging his embarrassment. “Are you sure you can’t do it yourself?” she snarks impishly.

He bares his neck to her, collar glinting in the late morning light, a cheap ploy but he knows she likes seeing her mark on him. He carefully steps out of, then knocks the laundry basket in front of the dryer with a little kick, starting the process over in reverse. It’s more labor-intensive than loading it up was and he ends-up grasping the handle of the laundry basket towards the end and attempting to just pour the damn things into the gaping maw of the machine, only succeeding in dropping it to the floor with a loud _thwack_. He sighs.

There’s stuff on his feet, now, from unloading the damp clothes then walking on the floor. His arms are tired and he feels oddly defeated. He kneels on the floor, causing her to gasp as he angles his collar again for her perusal, looking directly up at the ceiling as is her preferred position of supplication. He swallows uncomfortably, the sensation of his knees against the cold, unforgiving tile somehow much different than the hardwood in the hallways. “Please, Miss, I can’t do it alone.”

He waits patiently, no sound reaching his ears until she’s directly above him, hand on his face. “Good boys always ask for help when they really need it. I’m proud of you. Don’t move, don’t speak, Graham, I want you just like this.”

He meets her eyes, fleetingly, conveying his acquiescence without words before she steps away and he closes his eyes, feeling as if a burden has been taken from his shoulders. He hears her finish loading and starting the machine. He hears her take several pictures with her phone before pocketing it and he feels his entire body blush. She’s never… without permission… or where you could see his face... she's never taken pictures before, not without asking beforehand.

He feels her hand caress his neck again, tugging at his collar, prompting his eyes to open. “Better?”

He nods vigorously, the light behind her head giving her an ethereal look and he feels something within him unwind.

“Color?”

He rolls his tongue around is dry mouth, compulsively licking his lips again before he answers. “Yellow?”

She hums thoughtfully, “You want me to delete them?”

His forehead creases in thought, but he shakes his head slowly.

“Do you want to see them?”

He frowns and starts to shake his head before stopping and looking at her with a confused expression and she nods thoughtfully. “Maybe later. You thirsty?”

He nods again, and she steps away. “Go lie down on the couch, I’ll bring us a snack.”

She’s gone before he’s off the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thương is a Vietnamese word, "to love unromantically"
> 
> This will only be a few chapters long with light BDSM and casual intimacy, no sex if I can help it
> 
> Gifted to TheHeartBelieves because she's stayed up late talking to me on more than one occasion and, quite frankly, helps inspire this fic.
> 
> This is also for StrangeStorys because I am determined to read Two Headed Boy as soon as its finished and also, unwittingly, inspired this fic.


End file.
